


Que Sera, Sera

by jdmcool



Category: POE Edgar Allan - Works, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Underage Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-13 15:12:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdmcool/pseuds/jdmcool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For every great story, there's a beginning. For Sherlock, that beginning happened to involve C. Auguste Dupin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. August 1991

**Author's Note:**

> How is this not a thing? And if it is, someone link me to some other stuff, because seriously, Dupin is epic sex.

It was foolish to choose to stand outside on such a chilly night. Even more foolish to forget his coat, but Sherlock didn’t want to go back inside to get because he knew that such a face would mean having to put up with another family do, since they always seemed to involve inviting a number of family friends over to talk about trivial matters like sport and scandals. The former holding no interest for Sherlock, the latter being obvious enough without people wanting to tell him.

Not that anyone ever wanted to tell him anything. After all, he was only fifteen. The most he found himself being told was to behave by his parents and Mycroft, who was home for the hols, another great nuisance that Sherlock had to put up with.

He didn’t even understand why it was that everyone felt the need to remind him to behave. If he wanted to act poorly, he would’ve mentioned that his father was nothing if not eager to go off to his mistress, a middle aged blonde thing from across the channel. Boringly French, regardless of the fact that she had clearly been living in Switzerland for some time now. Sleeping with his father for nearly two years, as she fancied herself in love with him and was just French enough to never dare try to ruin his family, as though she wasn’t doing that already.

“I’m afraid that woman is a cousin of mine,” a distinctive French tone said. Looking over at the person, Sherlock was a bit surprised to find that it was one of their overdone guests. Taking off his coat, he held it out to Sherlock as he said, “Genevieve has always been... fond of the English.”

Scoffing as he took the offered article, feeling colder than he would’ve ever liked to admit, Sherlock shook his head. “It goes well with my father’s love of easy women,” he said, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice.

“So cruel,” the man laughed, resting his hands over his heart as though he was wounded.

It was quaint, if nothing else, Sherlock decided as he retrieved a cigarette and lighter from his trouser pocket. Lighting it up, he leaned back against the manor, staring up at the stars as he took a slow drag. His guest didn’t bother moving from where he stood, waiting for something that Sherlock couldn’t quite place.

“I wasn’t talking to myself,” he said when it finally dawned on him.

Chuckling, his guest nodded in agreement before settling next to Sherlock, hands in his pockets as he looked towards the sky as well. “You were looking over the minister’s wife, thinking about how their marriage would never last because of his lies to her when you noticed that she was pregnant and hiding that from him. At that you smiled, likely because it isn’t his,” he explained casually. “From their your eyes fell upon a group of young women giggling and looking over your brother who’s currently sleeping with his male friend. After that, you thought that love was a useless construct as you looked at your mother, who’s been by your father’s side all evening, much to chagrin of one woman who’s lingered not far off from your father. My Genevieve.”

“You’ve been watching me,’ Sherlock said, trying not to let on to the fact that he was almost flattered by the idea. “Why?”

“Because I don’t find riding as interesting as your brother and his friend.”

“Not horses anyways.”

Nodding his head in concession, his guest smiled and said, “And they didn’t invite me to join the other kind when they excused themselves.”

Which, of course, explained why it was Mycroft hadn’t come outside to complain that he was being a bad host, despite the fact that it wasn’t his party and no one really wanted him in there anyways. Well, except for, perhaps, the Frenchman at his side. And he had wisely chosen to join Sherlock outside rather than wait for the young man’s return.

Turning to face the man, Sherlock stared at him until the Frenchman slowly looked away from the stars, dark eyes settling on Sherlock’s, wry smile playing at his lips. Furrowing his brows, Sherlock looked him over, taking in the Louis Vuitton suit and JM Weston shoes, knowing that the man wanted to look impressive and had the money to burn through. Hair that was about two months overdue for a cut, even if there wasn’t a single one that was out of place. Pale enough to practically glow in the moonlight, a mix of dark hair, clothes and a tendency to avoid sunlight.

Taking another drag of the cigarette, Sherlock blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth, knowing that the man didn’t care for it by the twitch of his lips. “Would you like to? With me?” He asked, as innocently as anyone offering themselves up for sex could.

But the man merely let out a small huff of amusement. “You don’t even know who I am.”

“About Mycroft’s age, a little younger, brilliant mind and a bit bent,” Sherlock explained with a shrug. “You’re C. Auguste Dupin and your family expects great things from you because they don’t know of your gambling problems or your interest in young men.”

“You’re fifteen.”

“You’re twenty-two.”

“Twenty-one,” Dupin corrected.

“Too old to be talking sex with someone like me.”

“I believe you’re the one who offered to ride me, despite having no experience,” he shot back, feigning a scandalized look.

“I’m a quick study. And you are clever,” Sherlock said before turning away from him and returning back to his cigarette.

Arching a brow, Dupin was almost instantly pressed against his side, looking for all the world that he had just gotten the best present known to man. It was enough to cause a faint blush to spread across Sherlock’s cheeks as he tried to keep himself from moving away from the heat he could practically feel coming off the taller man.

“Ah. Last summer. You’ve liked me since last summer, when your family visited mine,” Dupin said with a shake of his head. “It was a weekend, Mycroft and I were quarrelling. All chess and picking apart everyone we saw.” Pausing to look Sherlock over, he smiled. “You’ve grown.”

Nearly choking on smoke at the fond tone of Dupin’s voice, Sherlock could feel his cheeks go red at that. And why that was, he didn’t even know, given that he had grown. He’d hit puberty the following fall, growth spurt making him taller and a bit gangly, though he had started to fill out rather nicely since then. His voice was a bit deeper and he finally had enough control over his own body to decide when he needed a haircut. Most people had spent the night telling him how different he looked now that the baby fat was fading into a sort of leanness. But there was simply something in the way that Dupin said such a simple fact that made his stomach twist into knots.

“You beat him eight times,” he said, trying to stick to the topic.

“And my reward is his younger brother?” Dupin laughed, obviously amused by the logic Sherlock presented.

And while he hadn’t meant it that way, Sherlock had to admit that such a fact did play a part. Dupin could’ve easily wasted his life as some sickeningly handsome Frenchman with too much money, but he didn’t. He had a love of books that even most scholars would hesitate to read had a brilliance that worked in a way that Sherlock only related to himself and Mycroft.

“No one beats Mycroft more than once. And you...”

“I get into people’s minds,” Dupin said, resting his arm against the wall as he leaned in slightly. Leaning back just as quickly, he gave Sherlock a shocked look. “Oh, you’re attracted to my mind. That is touching. But no. I refuse to partake in someone your age.”

“I’m perfectly of age in France,” Sherlock argued, appalled by the idea that Dupin was rejecting him.

“And if we were back in France, I would do such wonderfully terrible things to you, rest assured. But this is England and I would hate to upset your family.”

“I rather think if I’m old enough to smoke, I’m old enough to choose sexual partners,” Sherlock pointed out, wanting nothing more than for Dupin to do those things to him now.

“Ah. That reminds me of why I came out here.”

Brushing a thumb against Sherlock’s cheek, Dupin closed the distance between their mouths without a second thought. There was no hesitation as he kissed Sherlock like it was commonplace. Something that couldn’t have been further from the truth given the fact that Sherlock had never kissed anyone ele before, not that he wanted to. The way Dupin gently cupped the back of his head, leading his through it as he coaxed Sherlock’s lip apart with his tongue.

It was impossible not to lose himself in the act, hands awkwardly clenching at his side, since he had no clue of where he was supposed to put them. They felt empty and clumsy in a way that they shouldn’t have. Jerking away, Sherlock stared in shock as Dupin dropped his cigarette to the ground, quickly putting it out with the toe of his shoe.

“That was mine!”

“No. It was Mycroft’s. You’re taking advantage of the fact that he’s quitting, letting him think it’s just the maids or that friend of his.”

“You’re a horrible person. Go away, Dupin,” Sherlock said, turning away from him petulantly.

Pressing himself against Sherlock’s back, Dupin wrapped his arms around his waist as he kissed along Sherlock’s neck. “Your father is going to making a trip to France next month. Let your mother know she should go at bring you as well. Two birds, one stone,” he whispered into Sherlock’s ear.

Biting his lip with the effort it took to maintain his control, not wanting Dupin to know how much he was affected by the other man when he knew it was likely the result of Duping having a vast amount more experience than he did. Instead he just turned to face him, ignoring his body’s reaction to their proximity.

“And I’ll be able to find you?”

“No. But I’ll find you,” Dupin said, always having to be the one in charge.

Of course, with him that close, the smell of his cologne mixing with the smell of smoke that clung to Sherlock, all he could do was nod. “I’d like that.”

“Good. It was a pleasure speaking with you, Sherlock,” he said letting go of him.

Grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, Sherlock pulled the man back toward him, kissing him for all he was worth since he wasn’t just going to let the other walk away from him like that. It was the logical choice to let him, but with all the hormones coursing through his body, Sherlock wasn’t certain he could even recount the periodic table properly. The only thing he wanted was Dupin, who kissed him back lazily as he pressed him against the wall. His hand guiding Sherlock’s to rest on the small of his back, not that Sherlock kept it there.

Lowering his hand until it came to rest on Dupin’s arse, he pulled the man’s hips flush against his own, unable to keep quiet the moan that escaped his throat when he felt Dupin’s erection against his own. If he were in a better place mentally, he would’ve mocked the man for being just as needy as he was, but the most he could manage was a stuttered grinding motion as he tried to create as much friction as possible.

“Dupin, if I were you, I’d stop snogging my younger brother,” Mycroft called out. “He’s barely hit puberty.”

Forcing himself away, eyes closed, Dupin looked toward Mycroft before opening them again. “This is Sherlock? I had no idea.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes before looking to Sherlock, ready to make some complaint about his taste in partners, no doubt. It never came, though, as Mycroft paled visibly, obviously disgusted with what he saw.

“Oh God. Dupin, why you feel the need to... defile my brother, I will never understand, but I’d much rather you didn’t,” Mycroft said, polite tone verging on threatening.

“What do you mean, Mycroft?” Duping asked, not bothered in the slightest that Mycroft could see their intent as clearly as if they had told him.

“You’re a deviant and a paedophile.” Shoving Dupin away from Sherlock, Mycroft looked at his brother with a heavy sigh as he shook his head. “Sherlock, I hope you know mummy will be upset to learn of the route you’ve taken with your new sexual development. Now, come along, Dupin.”

Rather than put up an argument, Dupin did as he was told, following Mycroft back inside. Pausing at the door, he waved at Sherlock and said, “À bientôt, Sherlock.”

“Bye, Dupin,” Sherlock muttered, waiting until he was gone before wrapping himself a bit tighter in Dupin’s coat.

Perhaps his father wasn’t the only one predisposed to bad decisions, since Sherlock already knew that nothing good would come from the fact that he had a man, an honest to God man, interested in him. Six years may not have been much for someone his father’s age, but at fifteen, that was over a third of his life. Mycroft was correct in saying that Dupin was nothing more than a deviant.

But no matter how much he tried to convince himself of all the cons to what he was considering, his stiff cock seemed to have his mind focusing on how nice it was to be kissed, to have someone pressed against him, how badly he wanted to act out all those promises Dupin had made. It was stupid and foolish and Sherlock didn’t rightfully care because Dupin was a far more brilliant man than most. The fact that he came in an admittedly handsome package was nothing more than excess data.


	2. January 1992

Sherlock didn’t actually see why it was he had to go out of his way to be nice to someone just because they were visiting. The entire idea seemed pointless given that he wasn’t the one who invited them around. And while he was perfectly alright playing nice when they happened to be in the same room, mummy’s desire for him to leave his room and go say hello was nothing more than an inconvenience. Although, he wasn’t going to tell that to her.

Instead, he merely made his way to the study where Mummy had said she had last seen their guest and Mycroft, another person Sherlock didn’t feel the need to go out of his way for since Mycroft was the last person he wanted to see most days. Still, following the slight noise to where his brother and their guest was hunched over a chess board, hands hovering over the pieces, he scowled as he walked in and leaned against the door.

“Mummy said I had come to be polite toward our guest, so hello and goodbye,” he said, turning to leave since his duties were officially done.

Making a small noise of acknowledgement Mycroft’s guest said, “Terse.”

“It’s the haircut rather than him finally getting over that pathetic crush he had on you, Augie,” Mycroft pointed out, taking one of Dupin’s pawns, even if he had never moved his own.

Looking Sherlock over, Dupin nodded before turning his attention back to the chessboard. “Duly noted, Myc.”

Sherlock felt his blood go cold before his embarrassment warmed it again, the warm feel of a blush covering his cheeks only making matters worse. Reluctantly turning back around, Sherlock didn’t know what to say to him, instead settling on the first thing to come to mind.

“Dupin. Mummy didn’t say that you were visiting.”

“I was intending to see Mycroft and give regards from my father to yours,” he said, taking a pawn of Mycroft’s before looking up at him with a smile. “How are you?”

“Well.”

“Good.”

“You’re visiting Mycroft?” Sherlock questioned, leaning against the doorjamb.

Glancing up from where his hand hovered over Dupin’s bishop, Mycroft stopped to stare at his younger brother. Smile slowly spreading across his lips, he nodded toward Sherlock as he said, “Oh look. He’s jealous of me.”

Looking up at him as well, Dupin laughed. “You’re not my type, Mycroft.”

“I’m not a boy who's not even out of the grasp of puberty,” Mycroft replied before quickly snatching the man’s rook.

Ignoring the nervous feeling in his stomach since there really was no reason to feel nervous around Mycroft and one of is chums, even if Dupin only loosely qualified as such, Sherlock stood up a bit straighter while keeping his distance from them.

“Why are you visiting Mycroft?” Sherlock asked a bit more firmly.

“Mutual interests,” Dupin said casually.

Smirking at him, Mycroft nodded. “Skiing, to be exact.”

Furrowing his brows, Sherlock racked his mind for an answer given that Mycroft wasn’t the skiing type. In fact, generally speaking, Mycroft wasn’t the type to do anything required too much movement. An interest he seemed to share with Dupin.

“The Olympics are in France.”

At that, Dupin nodded, eyes darting between the smug look on Mycroft’s face and the chessboard. Sighing, he knocked over his own king, conceding to a loss that only made sense to Mycroft and himself. “I’ve invited your brother to attend with me. I’m… wooing him, yes?” Dupin questioned, putting the chess pieces back in their original places.

“Attempting,” Mycroft said, positively chuffed over his victory. “But unlike certain people, I pose service to the world.”

“You are a junior assistant to a political accountant. I’m certain you won’t be missed,” Dupin teased.

“It’s short notice.”

“You have a month. Well, two weeks.”

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft scoffed. “I can see how you might confuse the two.”

Honestly, it was just like that summer they had visited the Dupin family. Mycroft and Dupin playing at games that only made sense to them, even if Sherlock got the gist of it. Deducing the other’ moves rather than playing a normal game. They weren’t even playing at it like grandmasters who could simply call out their moves without aid of the board. No, they had to make a complicated game all that much more complicated.

The fact that they were both frighteningly good at such things only made Sherlock think of how in awe he had been of Dupin that summer and why his stomach felt as though it was twisting itself into knots watching him sit there with Mycroft, the two of them watching each other as they tried to sort of who would go first.

“Why ask him?” Sherlock said, unwilling to take part of in their silent, sedentary games.

“We both enjoy the idea of skiing much more than the act,” Dupin explained with a shrug.

“Of course. You’re both grotesquely lazy, although only one of you shows the signs of it.”

“I go out,” Dupin declared proudly.

Not that he didn’t have reason to. Dupin was the type of man to never spend any amount of consistently devoted time to exercise, but still managed to avoid the weight issues that Mycroft suffered. He was everything that a man in his early twenties should’ve been in Sherlock’s opinion, although even he had to concede to his own bias on that point.

Leaning back in his chair, chess game overlooked for the time being, Mycroft stared at Dupin as he shook his head. “Parties, events, anything and everything important to French high society.”

“I would think that you of all people could understand the importance of that,” Dupin said, nearly souding hurt by Mycroft’s accusation.

“Oh I do. Never doubt that, my dear Augie.”

Pleased with the response, Dupin turned his attention toward Sherlock, obviously willing to postpone their game further for his sake.“Why are you so bothered, Sherlock?”

“I’m not bothered,” Sherlock said quickly. “Why would I be? I hate the Olympics.”

Narrowing his eyes at him, Mycroft laughed. “Checkmate in three moves, Augie.”

Both Sherlock and Dupin looked at him in shock. Dupin because he had obviously lost the game without making a single move and Sherlock because he had been certain that they were no longer playing. A foolish belief to hold as Dupin slowly began moving the pieces around, Mycroft quickly joining in play out the match they had just worked through mentally.

When they finally stopped, it was obvious how Mycroft intended to win. Biting back a chuckle at the annoyed look on Dupin’s face as he sunk back into his chair, Sherlock slowly made his way over to them, resting his hand in the centre of the board, not that it would actually keep them from playing if they didn’t want to.

“You only won because your brother is a distraction,” Dupin muttered to Mycroft before looking up at him. “Now, Sherlock, what’s wrong? Are you mad at me?”

“For what?”

“I can only guess given that you’re the one that never came to me.”

“I couldn’t. Someone informed mummy of the affair and ruined everything,” Sherlock said as he glared over his shoulder at his brother.

“It was hardly right to let our own mother be made the fool of by him,” Mycroft said as though that had ever been his intent.

“You did it on purpose.”

Mycroft had waited until the week before what was supposed to be a pleasant trip to France before ruining everything by leaving Mummy the littlest of clues like a child leaving a trail of crumbs. It was one of the reasons that Sherlock refused to deal with his brother when he didn’t have to. Why Mycroft felt the need to keep him away from Dupin was beyond him. Well, aside from the seemingly grand age gap between the two of them.

“Right. I let mummy know what a philandering cad she married to prevent you from sexually exploring our friendly French pedophile.”

“I knew what I was doing,” Sherlock argued.

“I don’t see how,” Mycroft replied.

Cocking his head curiously, Dupin frowned. “Que?”

Looking back at him, Sherlock paled as Mycroft smiled smugly.  How he had forgotten Dupin was there was beyond him, but there was scarcely any chance that Mycroft would let the moment slide. Not after Sherlock had joyfully taken in harassing the man since he had ruined things those few months ago.

“I’m going to say yes to your invitation, Augie. Partly because I would love to attend and partly because you are both such idiots.”

“Stay out of politics. You’re far too crass to get anywhere,” Dupin sneered.

“I could say the same of you and law. For such an observant person, you’ve let your emotions get the better of you. You can’t even tell that he’s been waiting for you,” Mycroft laughed.

When Dupin looked at him, Sherlock couldn’t help but look away, wanting to curse at his brother for telling. The fact that he was blushing was just the icing on the proverbial cake since the very idea that he was blushing only caused him to do it more until Sherlock was certain that his face had to be as red as a tomato.

“Dieu…”

“You hold him in too high of regard thinking that Sherlock’s offer was the signs of a growing sexuality and that he might take up with someone his own age in your absence. If anything he’s been nothing if not the guarded virgin.”

“Shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock spat bitterly.

Patting Sherlock’s hand, Mycroft sighed happily. “And now he’s flustered because he knows it’s foolish to wait, since with his looks there are a number of imbeciles at his school he could have, but he only wants you.”

“Merci, Mycroft. I think I can do without any more information,” Dupin said, glaring daggers at him.

“Are you sure?” Mycroft asked. Looking Dupin over, he arched a brow at him. “I’m certain Sherlock can’t even read half the signs on you.”

“Oui. Sherlock, I’m sorry. I thought you might have changed your mind.”

“I’m not saving myself for you,” he said, feeling the need to make himself sound like less of a foolish child. “I just… I just couldn’t go. Mummy insisted that our father stay here. Has hardly let him out of her sight aside from that trip they took to Belgium.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Mycroft questioned.

Yet again Sherlock hated the fact that Mycroft saw something in Dupin that he didn’t. That changing the inflection on a single word could have Dupin paling slightly as though he had did something wrong. Likely because, even if Sherlock couldn’t read people like his brother, Mycroft’s shock was damn near obvious. Eyes wide, mouth threatening to fall open, Mycroft knew something awful and Sherlock hated that.

 “Dinner is soon, yes?” Dupin asked, unsubtly trying to change the topic as he looked away from Mycroft.

“Oh my God. No,” Mycroft said, hi shock rapidly turning to anger. “You lying prick.”

“I thought you knew,” Dupin spat back venomously.

Sherlock looked between them both trying to figure out just what it was that was going on since no matter how many times he ran the conversation over in his mind, he didn’t see the same problem they did. “Knew what? What’s going on?”

“No. He… Sherlock, get out,” Mycroft ordered.

Scoffing, Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and stood his ground. “I’m not going anywhere. Now what’s going on?”

“It could’ve been nothing,” Dupin offered helplessly. “I could be wrong. Perhaps—“

“You know that’s not the case so don’t try placate me.” Rubbing at his eyes, Mycroft smiled bitterly. “Christ. I need a drink and you are going to tell me everything.”

“D’accord.”

“I want to come,” Sherlock said as Mycroft grabbed his coat.

Looking down his nose at his brother, Mycroft clearly wasn’t going to concede to such a thing. “This isn’t about you, Sherlock so go back to your little experiment.”

Watching his brother walk out the door before he could even think to reply, Sherlock glared at Dupin, who looked nothing if not apologetic. Cupping Sherlock’s cheek, the slightly taller Frenchman stared at him.

“When I get back we will talk. I promise.”

With that he quickly left the room, following after Mycroft as they went off to discuss whatever it was that had caused the sudden change in his brother. Going over to the chess set, he sat in Dupin’s chair and toyed with one of the pieces. He was going to figure out just what it was that had cost him Dupin’s attention and find a way to get back at Mycroft.

* * *

Mycroft and Dupin didn’t actually return until right before dinner, much to Sherlock’s annoyance. They both looked as they had when they left before leaving in such a rush, though Mycroft didn’t even smell of alcohol. A strange fact considering that the entire point of their leaving was to get alcohol, as though that would fix anything. Not that Sherlock could quite place what it was that had caused their departure, aside from Mycroft being a horrible older yet again

He had sat through the entire meal with his family and Dupin, taking in as much as possible since it had to be something obvious. It had to be something that Mycroft could piece together in a matter of moments. Picking at hi food more than eating it, since this strange problem had all but ruined his appetite, Sherlock sighed.

“It’s always nice to have you here,” Mummy gushed, smiling about something Dupin had been talking about the entire time.

Briefly resting his hand over hers, Dupin smiled back. “It’s my pleasure to be here, Madame. My only regret is that of my father’s since I am certain he would’ve loved to have seen you again.”

“You’re becoming quite the little charmer.”

Chuckling, Mycroft shook his head at Dupin. “Such is the way with the French. Always so charming.”

“It is in our blood to be as such. The saying involves honey and flies. Or something of that nature,” Dupin said, waving his hand around vaguely.

“Something like that, yes,” Mycroft agreed, looking almost pained by Dupin’s casual butchering of nonsensical idioms.

“And, honestly, it is nothing if not easy to be kind to such a wonderful woman.”

“Merci, monsieur Dupin,” Mummy said, flattered by the young man’s attention.

Snorting, their father furrowed his brows in mock anger. “Now you’re bordering on flirtatious.”

“Another fine quality to be found in men of his nature,” Mycroft said before turning his attention back to his food.

Laughing to himself for being such an idiot, Sherlock smiled when his parents gave him a worried look. “You’re still seeing his cousin Genevieve,” he said to his father. “When in Belgium, you weren’t working. You were seeing your mistress. You’ll never stop with her, will you?”

“Sherlock—“ Mycroft said venomously

Holding up her hand towards Mycroft, their mother looked at their father, her face completely impassive. “Siger, is that true?”

There was hardly a more damnable confession than the way his father ducked his head as he struggled for words. The sound of silverware hitting plates as they were put down the loudest sound in the room what with everyone watching with baited breaths. Judging by the way Mycroft was glaring at him, Sherlock was certain that he had got it right. That that was the secret that he had seen in Dupin’s simple word.

Pushing his chair back, Dupin didn’t even force a smile as he said, “I believe it would be best for me to excuse myself. This is obviously a family matter I am reluctant to be privy to.”

“I’ll drive you to London,” Mycroft offered as he wiped his mouth with a napkin before rising to his feet. “I should be heading back myself.”

“Merci.”

Dropping his own fork, Sherlock watched them leave waiting all of a few moments before simply leaving, not bothering to make some sort of excuse for himself. After all, it was only his parents left and they knew how he tended to behave. Not to mention, with Mycroft and Dupin still behaving so strangely, he wanted to finish things once and for all.

* * *

“You’re actually leaving,” Sherlock said, trying to ignore the pang of hurt he felt as he entered the other’s room without even knocking.

When Dupin had mentioned such a thing, Sherlock had been fairly certain that the man was merely trying to leave the room to give his parents some privacy. The fact that he was carefully putting the last of his things in the small suitcase he had brought with him proved that Sherlock had miscalculated, something that was just as annoying as the idea him leaving.

“Your lack of tact is at fault,” Dupin pointed out as he closed his suitcase.

Frowning, Sherlock decided he didn’t actually care if the man was annoyed with him or not. If anything, he had every right to be annoyed back for the way Dupin and Mycroft had treated him, the fact that they thought they could keep such a secret from him.

“That’s what was bothering Mycroft earlier. That little ‘oh’. You didn’t know about Belgium.”

“No. I knew.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, Dupin looked rather tired as he looked at Sherlock with those dark brown eyes. “When Gen came back… She was happy again. Happy as only he makes her.”

“You were never going to tell,” he said, feeling like an idiot for being so obtuse.

“It isn’t my place to tell and now I am leaving before your parents have a chance to fully arm themselves.”

“What?”

Running his tongue along his lip, Dupin seemed amazed for reasons Sherlock couldn’t figure out. “Your father is continuing an affair with Genevieve that your mother thought ended. Do you really think she’d be fool enough to carry on with him after that?”

“They would never divorce,” he said with the firmness of a child being told Santa wasn’t real.

“You don’t need to divorce to end a relationship.”

Bitter, Sherlock shook his head because Dupin was wrong. The man knew nothing of his parents and there was certainly no way that his little comment would lead to anything such as what Dupin was alluding to. “As if you would know. Your mother died when you were a boy.”

The look of awe on Dupin’s face made Sherlock wince.

Rising to his feet, Dupin tutted softly as he made his way over to Sherlock. Wrapping his arms around his waist, Dupin said, “You are so very crass and so very young.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t—“

“I don’t  know when, if ever, I will get you to France. A true pity since the idea of waiting five years for you is tragic.”

Trying not to fidget, Sherlock asked, “Would you?”

“Be chaste for five years all for a boy who may lose his regard for me? Never,” Dupin answered. “But I would wait.”

Sherlock didn’t dare say that he had no intention of losing interesting in Dupin. Not because he thought it would make him sound horribly childish, but because he was rather certain Dupin already knew. Leaning into him, Sherlock licked his lips nervously.

“Mycroft’s coming,” he said, horribly annoyed with his brother’s timing.

Leaning in so close that their mouths practically touched, Dupin said, “I could have told you that thirty seconds ago.”

“Alright,” Mycroft said as he entered the room, not nearly as annoyed as one would expect him to be given the little bombshell that Sherlock had let loose over dinner. Clasping his hands in front of him as his eyes fell on them, Mycroft only looked vaguely disgusted by the sight before him. “Time to be off. Kiss Sherlock goodbye.”

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, not moving any closer to Dupin. “He’s eager because he has a new boyfriend. A soldier who’s should be back from Wales by morning.”

“A Welsh soldier?” Dupin asked, never once looking away from him.

“Fine. Don’t kiss him,” Mycroft said, his good mood dissipating rather quickly. “Either way, we’re leaving now.”

At that Dupin moved away to grab his things, leaving Sherlock standing there sullenly as he watched him. He couldn’t tell whether he was more upset with himself for possibly ruining things between his parents or because the end result was Dupin leaving early, but he did know of a long shot that would never actually work.

Turning toward Mycroft, Sherlock felt almost physically ill as he looked him over, forcing himself to ask, “May I come? I can catch a train home.”

“No.”

“Mycroft. I don’t want to be left here with them.”

“You should’ve thought of that before mentioning that affair over dinner,” Mycroft said, making it clear that he was most annoyed with Sherlock’s actions as well.

Clenching his hands into fists at his side, Sherlock frowned. He knew he probably deserved some kind of punishment, but it wasn’t Mycroft’s duty to decide what it was. And certainly not fair to leave Sherlock with them when they both knew that his father would be nothing short of furious at him, not that he would have time to deal with Sherlock if the poets were right about a woman’s fury.

Placing an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder, Dupin briefly glared at Mycroft before focusing on him. “You would not enjoy yourself. Just conversation between two lazy men.”

“It wouldn’t have to be that way,” he muttered.

“It would because I’m not having you two shagging in my flat, not that Dupin would even touch you,” Mycroft said with a roll of his eyes. Noticing the way Sherlock was glaring at him, he sighed. “He takes the law very seriously for reasons that you will never fathom. He’s a gentleman who would never give into an illegal temptation of a sexual nature. Augie is likely the only Frenchman who wouldn’t encroach upon your virtue.”

Doing his best not to clench his jaw, Sherlock turned toward Dupin, silently willing him to say something, anything that would go against what Mycroft said. The far too calm look on the man’s face said that Mycroft had been nothing but honest, something that Sherlock should’ve been happy about. People were supposed to want the type of person that wouldn’t pressure him into sex after all.

It often seemed like it was only him having to go through the horribleness of being a teenage boy who was stuck with someone who was waiting to have sex with him. That it was just his terrible luck that he would have such useless feelings for someone who cared about idiotic things like consent laws. Looking away from Dupin, Sherlock silently cursed the entirety of the human make up over his desires for the pompous gentleman.

“When you are next in France, we’ll meet up. Have café,” Dupin said as though that was some kind of consolation.

Looking at him again when he felt a hand on his jaw, Sherlock tried not to lean into the chaste press of lips against his own. Between Mycroft and Dupin, Sherlock was nothing short of furious. Absolutely livid even as his own traitorous lips parted eagerly, disregarding Mycroft’s presence in the room. The fact that Dupin moved away from him instead hardly even a surprise.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock tried not to let his disappointment show since he was certain that if not for Mycroft’s presence he could’ve honestly tempted the Frenchman. “Goodbye Dupin.”

Smiling, Dupin grabbed his suitcase from the bed and made his way over to Mycroft as he said, “Au revoir, Sherlock. You can always call me Auguste in future.”

It wasn’t as though Sherlock didn’t know he could call the man that given that everyone did, but something about being told that by him made Sherlock feel needlessly special. Yet another feeling that was nothing more than a chemical reaction, despite how good it made him feel. He was certain once he finally got the man into bed it would all go away and he could focus on matter than didn’t involve his bodily reactions to specific people.


End file.
